


quicken to the new life

by flootzavut



Series: take my hand [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (mild), Asexual Character, Blanket Permission, Episode Spoilers, Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Fluff, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, Romance, Sweetness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 16:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20781698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: "It isn't until the door's closed firmly behind them, as safe and secure as they've been in quite some time, that he's able to properly relax, to let out the breath he's been holding for what feels like a century."





	quicken to the new life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alleyesonthehindenburg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alleyesonthehindenburg/gifts).

> for everyone at the Ritz ♥️
> 
> Title from The Prophet's Song again

* * *

_ **quicken to the new life** _

* * *

They don't touch, once they've swapped back.

They look - oh how they look. Crowley watches Aziraphale eat with bewildering focus, and it isn't the first time, it's just the first time Aziraphale's really allowed himself to notice, to give the look back with just as much need, desire... love. It's been like this for so long, he doesn't remember what it was like before. Before their friendship, before the Arrangement, before... everything.

It isn't that he's forgotten exactly, it's that when he thinks back, it feels as if it's always been this way. Crowley picking at this and that, but far more interested in watching Aziraphale and drinking wine. Aziraphale relishing the food and relishing Crowley's attention, even if he couldn't admit that to himself. Eating oyster after oyster in Rome, tapas in Madrid, crêpes in Paris, eels in London, the common thread is always Aziraphale eating his fill as Crowley watches him consume every morsel, far more interested in Aziraphale than in any kind of food. Aziraphale never let himself put a word around the look before; now he'd call it 'hungry', and it thrills him.

But they didn't touch, not like that, not in public, and they don't now.

After a long, leisurely meal, they stroll back to the bookshop. It's not a conscious decision, but it's where they've always gone, warm and cosy and welcoming. Crowley's flat is just a place he keeps his things, a place he sometimes sleeps. The bookshop is home.

As they walk, they finally touch, albeit ostensibly by accident. The pavements are sometimes narrow, and when they bump shoulders or the backs of their hands brush together, neither of them says a word, even though it makes Aziraphale's skin fizz with joy and fear; joy of what they have, of having survived, and fear at what might be still to come.

It isn't until the door's closed firmly behind them, as safe and secure as they've been in quite some time, that he's able to properly relax, to let out the breath he's been holding for what feels like a century.

He looks at Crowley, and Crowley looks at him, and suddenly, with no apparent transition, they're clinging on to one another, so tight it almost hurts. Crowley's shaking, and Aziraphale whispers, "Shhh, I've got you, it's all right, my darling boy," and Crowley whispers back, "We're okay, we made it, we're okay, you're okay, I was so scared."

Aziraphale takes huge gulping breaths against the tears threatening to overflow. His wings unfurl instinctively, reaching out to surround and protect Crowley, and Crowley's reach for him in the same moment, and they're enveloped by soft feathers, black and white tangling together.

It's... a lot. They stand there for a long time, reluctant to let go, reluctant even to loosen their hold, murmuring affection and comfort and relief. Aziraphale has no idea what he says, hears only snatches of what Crowley says, because none of the content is nearly so important as the fact they're still here to say it to one another. There's nowhere else in the universe Aziraphale wants or needs to be, no one else he wants to think about, and even when their hold on each other loosens to something softer and less desperate, he has no urge to move away. He runs his hands up and down Crowley's back, over his wings, strokes Crowley's neck and into his hair, and chuckles softly when Crowley does the same to him.

"We're okay," Crowley says eventually, but this time it's filled with laughter instead of horror and fear.

"More than okay," Aziraphale replies. "Oh, my dear. I don't think I've ever been so afraid."

"Never?"

Aziraphale sighs. "Dear boy." He draws back enough to look Crowley in the face, then impatiently removes Crowley's sunglasses and cups his cheeks. "I love you, Crowley. I _love_ you. If I'd lost you-" His voice cracks.

Crowley watches him, mouth slightly open, somehow both wary and delighted. "Me too," he says at last.

"I don't know what I would have done."

They stare at each other; Crowley's eyes fill with tears, and Aziraphale's own finally escape. Aziraphale holds his breath again as Crowley leans in to kiss them from his cheeks, so gently and carefully, then presses more gentle kisses to his mouth. It's almost unfathomable that they get to have this, even for a moment; that they might get to keep it is beyond any emotion Aziraphale has ever felt. Happiness is too small a word, delight too subdued, joy hardly touches it. If anything in his life has ever been worthy of being called 'holy', it's this, and he'd defy God Herself to say otherwise.

It's soft and affectionate and chaste, and yet it means more than Aziraphale could put into words. The rightness of it, of Crowley's mouth on his... maybe this too was part of Her plan all along.

Then Aziraphale realises abruptly that he no longer cares if it was or not. He doesn't care if this is part of the great plan or the ineffable plan or even the slapped-together-hastily-and-secured-with-sellotape-and-rubber-bands plan; there is nothing that could stop him kissing Crowley short of Crowley himself requesting that he should.

"Dear one?" he whispers against Crowley's lips.

They're standing so close, even the limitations of these frail bodies can't hide Crowley's delight in Aziraphale's affection. "Yeah?"

"Darling."

Crowley makes a small sound of need.

"Dearest," Aziraphale says finally, and maybe it comes closest to expressing what's in his heart (Crowley lets out a little sob), but it's still paltry in comparison to what Aziraphale wishes he could express. In lieu of better words, he tugs Crowley in even closer and lets go of himself, reaching out to find Crowley as he did when they swapped corporations. This time, though, there's no rush into Crowley's body, just a sense of familiarity, of welcome as Crowley realises Aziraphale's intent, as their spirits intertwine and laugh and love.

Exchanging places was intimate, but somehow this is more so. Not just spending time walking around in Crowley's likeness, but deliberately seeking one another out, knowing and being known on the deepest possible level. It makes Aziraphale's heart pound more than any sensual pleasure ever has, it's both terrifying and the most comfortable, the most safe he's ever felt. He's so beloved; it's so deep and unmistakable, so desperately sincere. It's always been there; it's incomprehensible that Aziraphale ever convinced himself otherwise.

Does Crowley feel it too? Does he know how beloved he is? Aziraphale pours it out over him and hopes he can sense it, hopes he feels it too. _I love you_ Aziraphale says, not with his voice but with his spirit, his whole self, and every mite of strength in him.

To be wound so tightly together is both intoxicating and exhausting; the intensity of the emotion becomes too much, and they slowly untangle, slipping back into their own bodies. Aziraphale is a little startled to find they've crumpled into a mess of limbs on the floor.

"Oh, dear me."

Crowley draws back just far enough to look him in the face, and then he's laughing and holding Aziraphale tight again. "Angel, do you know that you're ridiculous?"

Aziraphale pouts, even though he knows Crowley can't see him. "Terrible boy." He probably couldn't keep his affection out of his voice even if he tried.

The floor is awfully hard, but Aziraphale doesn't want to let go. He concentrates for a moment - there, that's just right - then again, and they're cuddled up together on an old-fashioned four-poster bed, a handmade quilt settling lightly over them, in a room which didn't exist until thirty seconds ago.

Crowley looks around, forehead creasing. "Angel?"

"Yes?"

"Is this your bedroom?"

"Well... yes."

A pause. "I didn't think you _had_ a bedroom."

Aziraphale blushes. "It's a recent acquisition."

"How recent?"

"Well, I suppose it must be... um, maybe a minute and a half now?" he admits bashfully. "Or a bit less."

There's a moment of complete silence, and when Crowley looks back at Aziraphale, his eyes are dark and almost unfathomable. "For me?" he whispers.

More blushing. "Of course, dearest. Who else?"

"Ah." Crowley smiles shakily. "So you got me into bed again after all."

"Oh!" Aziraphale says. "I didn't mean to- to make any assumptions, my dear."

"I know." Crowley curls into him. "I know," he says again. He tucks himself in under Aziraphale's chin.

Aziraphale's heart is full to bursting. Crowley is soft and pliant under his hands, so trusting, so dear. "I love you," Aziraphale murmurs.

"I love you too."

Joy is too small a word.

_~ fin ~_


End file.
